


The Angel

by bluebellsandcocklesshells



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Human!Castiel - Freeform, M/M, angel!dean, climbing out of own grave, reverse!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6739198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellsandcocklesshells/pseuds/bluebellsandcocklesshells





	The Angel

Castiel felt the dirt filling his ears, his nostrils, blocking his eyes and making them sting.  He tried to breathe softly through his mouth to prevent the powdery earth from puffing down his dry throat.  But it became harder to maintain his composure the more his passages clogged and the longer he felt nothing but soft, heavy dirt above him.  He could barely use his feet, his elbows were now trapped above his head, his hands and fingers scrabbled at dirt, dirt, fucking dirt.  A despairing sob wracked his body, and he inhaled dirt.  He coughed, but couldn’t clear his throat.  He couldn’t breathe.  This was it.  But he wasn’t going out sitting still.  He’d fight until the end.

It occurred to him suddenly that this might be one of Alistair’s newest forms of torture and if he just stopped struggling and let himself “die” it would all be over.  But he’d been so good lately, why would Alistair punish him like this?  Did Alistair really need a reason?

Castiel stretched and reached, knowing it would be his last effort—and then he felt…nothing.  No dirt, no mud, no solid top to another cage.  He felt nothing because it must be empty space.  That small measure of hope gave him the adrenaline burst he needed to push a little harder, a little longer.  Then his hands felt free and he was able to start pushing dirt away instead of just down on himself.  Then his wrists were free and he could push down on the ground.  He struggled some more, and when his elbows were free, he was finally able to use all the strength he had left to pull himself up and out.

When his head broke through the first thing he did was gasp in a deep, desperate breath.  Dirt still caught in his throat, but there was air.  Sweet oxygen that infused his body and suddenly he felt a little less weak.  Not back to his old self, but strong enough to pull the rest of his body out of the hole he’d burrowed his way out of and collapse onto his back.  He panted and squinted against a bright blue, cloudless sky.

His eyes scanned the area to his left: the grass and trees had been blown out in an arch from where he’d crawled out of.  At his feet was a crude wooden cross with a chain a daisies over it, the flowers brown and several days if not weeks old.  Apparently Hannah hadn’t been by recently.  So did that mean it was more or less likely that she was responsible for his sudden resurrection?

“Resurrection,” he said, although it came out like a hoarse whisper.  “Holy fuck.”

“If you play your cards right.”

Castiel whipped his head to the left toward where the voice had come from.   _Stupid, stupid._  He hadn’t surveyed the whole area.  He turned onto his side about to struggle to his feet when his eyes caught on the speaker and he stopped moving, dumbfounded.

A man with a god-like face and bright green eyes was lounging in a lawn chair, eating a bag of Cheetos.  He took a long pull from a bottle of beer, burped loudly, and then put the bottle on the ground.

“Took you long enough.  I’ve been sitting here for, like, twenty minutes.”

Cas was having a hard time processing those words, but he did manage to work out that this guy clearly knew he’d been struggling to get above ground and hadn’t lifted a single finger to help him.  With effort, Cas managed to get to his feet, feeling a little shaky with the whole standing thing, but on task about his anger.

“If you knew I was down there, why didn’t you help?”

“Because I’d already done all the heavy lifting, quite frankly.  I did manage to get you in there in the first place.”

Cas took a step back, his legs wobbling.

“Lilith…”

“What?  No.”

The man stood up and wiped the Cheeto dust off on his jeans.  He had nice thighs.  Castiel shook his head and refocused on his face.

“Lilith put you in Hell.  I put you there,” he indicated the grave, “—well, technically, your sister put you there, and I—”

“Where’s Hannah?!  What have you done with my sister?!”

“Nothing.  She buried you ‘cause you were dead.”

“We burn our dead.”

“Not the toxically codependent parts of your family tree.  Look, I’ve already done a lot of draining work today, and that was after _years_ of fighting to find your—”

As the man had been speaking, Castiel had edged closer, feeling the Kurdish blade that was always on his belt.  Hannah must not have been able to bury him without it.  They both had one, but it had been stupid of her to give up such a valuable weapon.  Regardless, he had it now and while the man was busy espousing his woes, Castiel got close enough to strike lightning quick, driving the blade up under his sternum and into his heart.

Pain arced through his knuckles and wrist.  He felt like he’d just stabbed a concrete wall.  The blade had definitely hit its mark, but the man seemed completely unaffected.  Castiel stepped back, mouth agape, eyes wide.  The man pulled the blade out and dropped it on the ground.  He wasn’t even bleeding.

He did look annoyed.

“The fuck, man?  Is that any way to thank somebody?”

“Who are you?” Castiel asked, his voice wrecked and fearful.

“I’m the one who dragged your ungrateful ass out of hell, that’s who I am.”

Castiel stared, unable to believe a man could save him from hell, although since the Kurdish knife had no effect on him whatsoever, he clearly wasn’t a man.  Or a demon.

“ _What_ are you?”

“M’name’s Deamiel, and I’m an angel of the fuckin’ Lord.  You can call me Dean.”

“Ang—”  Cas’ mouth flapped.  He swallowed with difficulty.  “Angel?  There’s no such thing.”

Deamiel—Dean—whatever—took two steps forward and put them almost nose to nose.  Castiel could feel the heat of Dean’s body curling against his, his warm breath ghosting over his lips, and he could feel— _something_ —slowly enveloping his body in a phantom sensation of strength and power…and comfort.

“You sure about that?” Dean asked.

Castiel looked up into those too green eyes.  The angel looked back at him.  He could recognize him now.  He’d looked different down there.  He must be possessing some poor bastard to talk to him now, but Castiel recognized him.

“Why?” he asked, breaking down.  He choked on his tears, his voice cracking as he spoke.  “You saw me.  You saw what I did…why would you…?”

“Because God commanded it.”

Castiel let his head drop and shook it.  “He made a mistake.”

Dean cupped his hands around Castiel’s face and forced him to look up and meet his eyes.

“And because I believe in you.”

Castiel shivered, overwhelmed by the notion that an angel of God could believe there was still something in him worth saving.

“You’re a fool,” Cas whispered.

Dean gave a lopsided smile.  “You aren’t the first to suggest that.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for endless seconds, and then Dean cleared his throat and stepped back, releasing Castiel.  He clapped his hands once.

“Alright.  Enough crying.  We’ve got an errant sister to find, death records to reverse, an ornery avuncular figure to convince you’re not a ghost or a shapeshifter, and an apocalypse to stop.  Get your little pig-sticker there and follow me.”

Castiel still felt overwhelmed, so it was just easiest to follow Dean’s orders.  He picked up the Kurdish knife from the ground, wiped it off, and sheathed it.  He stumbled after Dean, still not quite feeling steady on his feet.  He got close enough to touch Dean, and without thinking reached out to brush his fingers over the green plaid shirt between his shoulder blades.

“Why are we walking?  I remember seeing wings.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Dean said sidestepping the touch and glaring back at him.  “Don’t go touching somebody’s wing… _area_.  Do you see me grabbing your junk?”

Castiel blinked in surprise.  “Are your wings a G-spot?”

“ _What_?!  No.  Uh, no.  Shut up and walk.”

“Why are you in a human vessel?”

“Because my true form is the size of the Empire State Building and my face and voice would blow your puny human mind to smithereens.”

“Unh-huh.  So, when you decided to take a vessel, the Calvin Klein underwear model was the only one available?”

Dean glanced back and gave him a smirky grin.  “He’s actually very devout.  He prayed to be touched by an angel.”

Castiel snorted.  “You’re not actually one of the good, fluffy winged angels, are you?  You’re like a fallen angel or someth—ung!”

Castiel’s hands flew to his throat, helpless to do anything as he dangled in Dean’s inhumanly strong grip.

“Careful.  Fallen is not a term to be tossed around lightly.”

Cas attempted a nod and gurgled a response.  Dean lowered him and Castiel bent over and coughed, rubbing his neck and knowing it was going to bruise.  He straightened, still rubbing his throat and met Dean’s eyes, which were shiny with anger and…sadness?

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to imply that you are, um, not loyal to God.”

Dean relaxed and nodded.  “Damn right I’m loyal to Father.  And if he wants me to keep you safe, then that’s where I’ll keep you.”

Castiel’s lips parted slightly as he looked into those fierce eyes.  “I believe you.”

Dean nodded.  And then that playful smile was back on his face.  “Of course, he didn’t say anything about the condition of your virtue.”  He winked and turned to start walking again.

Castiel blushed.  Had the angel just…flirted with him?  Well, hell, if Hannah got a demon, why couldn’t he have an angel?

Castiel hurried to catch up.


End file.
